Here I am,
aisle-seat in the very last row,
just before the toilets.
Headphones tight to my skull,
I observe.
Empty-seat to my left
then middle-aged stock trader,
buying
selling
imaginary money.
He has closed the window-cover.
Bastard.
No white, rolling cloud-scapes for me.
I peer right.
Two women, both asleep.
Blond aisle-girl with
disregarded book in lap.
Window-girl gently snores,
mouth open.
Coffee goes cold, banana brown,
before her.
“Here is your Coke, sir.”
White teeth and fake cheer,
break my reverie.
“Ah, thank you,”
I say,
pretend smile versus pretend smile.
“About damn time,”
I think,
but keep inside.
Service is slow enough already in the
aisle-seat in the very last row,
just before the toilets.
